


third time's the charm

by Yuki1014o



Series: gold on the water (op-va crossover) [3]
Category: One Piece, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Character Study, Cipher Pol!Abbacchio, Enemies to Lovers, Fishman Revolutionary!Bruno, Fishman edition, M/M, Propaganda, Racism, Reincarnation, Worldbuilding, kind of, recovering memories of a past life, the worldbuilding is strong in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: “Good morning,” somebody says, and they swirl into Abbacchio’s sight. He’s clothed in a charcoal-colored suit, with blue hair so deep it’s almost black, and eyes so blue they could be the ocean and the sky wrapped in one. And then—an outstretched hand, nausea in his throat, and Déjà vu so strong it makes the world tilt.Blue eyes, black hair, a hand, an offer, salvation; the start of a dream that always ends in red and—And Abbacchio remembers who he is, snaps back to his skin, sees a fishman in front of him, and tries to bite off his tongue.
Relationships: Leone Abbacchio/Bruno Buccellati
Series: gold on the water (op-va crossover) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700272
Comments: 27
Kudos: 98





	third time's the charm

Abbacchio wakes up with the ocean in his ears. His vision is a cloud of purple-black splotches that blink away into pinks and oranges and reds so vibrant that he could’ve stepped into the evening sunset.

 _A coral reef_ , he thinks, bleary with sleep and blood loss, he’s in a coral reef. A huge one, scaled up for giants. There’s a bubble of air around him, kept together by Sabaody-grade coating resin. It extends just tall enough so that he can sit up, and just wide enough that he could lay down with his head touching one end and his feet the other. A cage made of air.

“Good morning,” somebody says, and they swirl into Abbacchio’s sight. He’s clothed in a charcoal-colored suit, with blue hair so deep it’s almost black, and eyes so blue they could be the ocean and the sky wrapped in one. And then—an outstretched hand, nausea in his throat, and Déjà vu so strong it makes the world tilt.

Blue eyes, black hair, a hand, an offer, salvation; the start of a dream that always ends in red and—

And Abbacchio remembers who he is, snaps back to his skin, sees a fishman in front of him, and tries to bite off his tongue. The fishman lunges forward, shoving a slippery, almost rubbery feeling, hand between Abbacchio’s teeth.

The fishman clicks his tongue. “I should have gagged you,” he says, and the voice clicks and sings in a way human voices never do.

Abbacchio can’t speak, but he can glare, and it earns him a glare in return. Which is—expected, of course, because this is a fishman, a _revolutionary_ fishman, and Abbacchio is a _Cipher Pol_ agent. He’s surprised that every inch of him isn’t cuffed up with seastone. It’s—unexpectedly accommodating, actually. He isn't drugged, bound, yes, with his hands behind him, but—if this were a Cipher Pol interrogation room then he’d already be half dead and tortured.

Shit.

Jumping into the ocean was supposed to kill him, not get him _captured_. This is the exact kind of situation every agent is taught to avoid at all costs. He—he needs to either figure out a way to escape or a way to kill himself. He’s Cipher Pol, intelligence, the hand that dirties itself for the sake of maintaining order. (Peace, actually, that’s what they’re told. And maybe it’s treason but sometimes Abbacchio looks at the world and thinks, _is this peace?_ And he has to bite his tongue and remember that it’s order; it’s better than anarchy.) It would be a disaster for the information in his head to fall into revolutionary hands.

His eyes flick to meet to fishman’s. Now, when Abbacchio looks closer, he can see gills on his neck, skin the color of orange-bronze, white stripes cut stark and conspicuous against his skin. His suit cuts off at the shoulders, revealing neon-bright spines arc down his arms—cluster at his elbows. They’re up straight and bristling. Venomous, no doubt. Abbacchio can feel them in his mouth, too, on the fishman’s knuckles, they scrape against the roof of his mouth, small pricks of pain that draw blood, and he can feel the venom spread through his veins.

First, his jaw. It goes lax, loose, numb. The feeling spreads down his neck, lolling his head, coursing down like ice in his veins. Then through his arms, his torso, his legs. Lax, loose, not paralyzed, but it’s a close thing.

The fishman removes his hand, lips pulled into a thin line. Steps back, out of the bubble of air. His blue-black hair blooming up around his face, stands swaying in the water. He watches Abbacchio. Abbacchio watches him. The spines gradually slip back down, laying into each other like an armor of needles.

The fishman is beautiful in they way of an exotic fish.

This is the closes he’s ever seen one. At sea, they avoid most humans like the plague. They never enter waters that are too close to marine bases, they never so much as touch strongly marine-controlled water. He’s seen them in slave auctions, though. Bound by chains and slipped into tanks, deep bruises on their bodies, eyes dull, colors muted. Not like this. Up close, with his bright blue eyes and orange-bronze skin and sunset-colored spines, the fishman is almost breathtaking.

A bright spot of color darts around the fishman’s hair. A little pink fish. A moment, a split second, and the fishman’s head snaps around, jaws opening, a mouth full of need-sharp teeth, and the fish is gone. A small swirl of blood blooms up in the water, like crimson ink.

The moment shatters, quiet wonder shoved away, and the poison won’t let him walk, won’t let him fight, won’t let him muster enough strength to bite of his tongue, but he can form words. So Abbacchio’s lips twist into something cruel and conditioned; cipher training and world government teachings— “Fish eat fish.”

The fishman’s head snaps around, wordless snarl on his lips, features twisted into complete disdain.

“You won’t be saying that when the chief gets here,” he says, lips drawn back, needle-sharp teeth bared, fishman voice carrying easily through the water.

With that, the fishman storms off, disappearing somewhere into the canopy of vibrant coral and inky black depths. Abbacchio learns back, closes his eyes, feels iron on his tongue, limbs numb, and tries not to let his stomach sink.

-

Abbacchio dreams like he always does, blood and guns—blue water and glittering shores. The afternoon sun hitting gold on pale stones, buildings down to the water, the scent of garlic and fresh-baked bread and salt. Alcohol.

Blue eyes and black hair and bronze skin, a hand, an offer, salvation; the start of a dream that always ends in red.

-

The reef appears to be some type of revolutionary base. His bubble is tucked into a petrified oyster shell, one of many. Above, Abbacchio can hardly see the ocean, much less the sky. The tangle of bright-colored coral stretch as far as he can see, like a web of neon branches, and where the coral ends all he can see is inky black. Day and night don’t exist here. The reef itself is bio-luminescent, bright and glowing, but it’s a gentle light. Not harsh on his eyes.

Most of the fish are also luminescent. Little splotches of color that dart around with sharp teeth, snapping each other up and dancing around in swirls of color. But—that’s only what he can see. Sometimes, beyond the tangle of coral, he can see dark, looming shapes, eyes catching the light, flashes of white teeth.

It leaves a lot of time to stew. He’s already discarded any hopes for escape. He doesn't know where he is, and the water is full of fishmen, there’s a deep gash across his chest and a stab through his thigh, both bandaged. But he doesn’t have the strength for suicide; every eight hours, like clockwork, the blue-eyed fishman comes to scrape him with venom.

Abbacchio grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and wishes he had died. He was careless—tailing a group of revolutionaries, last mission before a small break, and he got caught. They were on a standard resource ship, and two of them were devil fruit users, and there wasn’t much Abbacchio could _do_ but throw himself into the ocean. He didn’t think there would be fishmen _waiting_ there, and now he’s, well—

Fishmen come through, sometimes, they glance at him, stares burning on his skin, dart around, and they all wear blue and black. Revolutionary colors. They do not approach. Abbacchio reckons they’re waiting for the higher ranks to arrive.

That changes.

It’s a human, fitted with his own reinforced bubble. It takes a moment for Abbacchio to recognize him. He’s one of the men from the group of revolutionaries that battled him—he’s missing a leg. Limping around with crutches, a mass of bandages, and Abbacchio barely has time to feel spitefully vindicated before he see’s a flash of silver metal and—

The knife slices easily through Abbacchio’s skin, into his flesh, biting and burning through the numb slicing clean through a muscle, down to the bone of his shoulder. The metal is freezing, and the it only takes a few moments for the nerves to start screaming. Blood pools down onto the floor, pooling against the edges of his bubble.

Abbacchio hisses in pain, doesn’t scream because he’s eighteen with a decade of torture training under his belt. (And he’s always had an uncanny pain tolerance, anyway, never cried over hurts, even as a baby.) So he bites his lips as hard as he can and digs nails into his palms and calls it mercy, because it’s only a stab wound on numb skin and he’s had worse. _Done_ worse.

By now his Cipher Pol suit is more rusty red than white. He weakly spits a glob of blood at the revolutionary. See’s the man’s expression contort, braces himself for another hit and—

“ _Stop_ ,” cuts a voice, sharp and commanding, clicking in a way human voices never quite do. Abbacchio lifts his head, as much as he can, eyes catching on black hair and blue eyes and bronze skin. “You want to be on _their_ level? This is shameful.”

The man startles back like he’s been shocked. “But—Buccellati!”

Abbacchio winces. First, because there’s obviously a hierarchy here, an order of ranks, and the consequences of arguing with a superior have long since been beaten into Abbacchio’s very bones. And second, because there is something _wrong_ about the way he said that name, the way it rolled, the stress of the syllables, and it’s a deep, aching sense of wrongness that sends ants beneath Abbacchio’s skin and bells ringing in his mind.

“ _Leave_ ,” the fishman—Buccellati—says, sharp, and there’s a dangerous clicking edge to it. His venomous spines bristle, and the man is quick to jump out of Abbacchio’s bubble, blow himself up a new one, and swing himself away through the tangle of coral.

Buccellati sighs. Eyes Abbacchio with his ocean-sky eyes, pupils dilating, eyeing the new wound, the blood pooling around in the giant oyster shell. And it’s common knowledge that carnivorous fishmen eat anything but other fishmen. Abbacchio clenches his jaw.

“What?” He manages, “Gloating?”

Buccellati raises an eyebrow, shakes his head, steps over, heels clacking on the petrified shell. “Stay still,” he says, takes a knife from his belt, and uses it to cut the fabric off Abbacchio’s shoulder. The air catches in his throat, he can’t breath—too close, a predator at his neck, and it takes all his control not to bristle.

But Buccellati’s hands are almost gentle on the wound. He dabs up the blood without scraping, holds the needle steady as he stitches Abbacchio’s skin into place, numbs the flesh with venom and doesn't speak a word. And on anyone else, on a _human_ , he’d call it kindness—but Buccellati is a fishman and fishmen aren’t kind.

(Fishmen aren’t kind. Mer are exotic but fishmen are _dangerous_.)

“Why,” Abbacchio pauses, almost bites back the question, but—“you didn’t need to stitch it shut. For interrogation I only have to be alive. Not healthy or—or _comfortable_.”

The fishman looks at him for a very long moment. Blue eyes, bright and glittering and utterly inhuman. “Maybe,” Buccellati says, lip curling, “I’m not a sadistic government asshole with no captive standards. There’s no _fun_ in seeing your hurt.”

Which would be understandable, maybe, from a _human_ but—“You’re a fishman,” Abbacchio says, because it should explain everything. Because fishmen are _predators_ , there have been _studies_ on this, scientific ones, award winning peer-reviewed papers showing that fishmen are _fish_ ; are carnivorous beings that are more instinct than thought. Are dangerous, are threats, are cheap labor and— “You aren’t—why do you _care?_ ”

(Because if Abbacchio was in Buccellati’s position, if he were the captor not the captive—he wouldn’t do this. He would ignore it. He doesn’t go around hitting prisoners because he isn’t _actually_ a sadist but he isn’t _kind_ , isn’t _soft_. That gets people killed.)

“Because,” Buccellati says, slowly, like he doesn't know if this conversation is worth the time, “I can, and I do. The same as any decent human, or giant, or mink.”

“But—” and Abbacchio's eyes catch. On the fishman’s collar, where sleek black fabric had previously covered, stark red against the surrounding orange-bronze—a slave mark. Not a World Noble brand, but a branding nonetheless, and Abbacchio knows it. He cleaned up the rubble of the ring that brand belonged to. Entertainment— _fighting_ , dog-fighting for the rich.

Buccellati is quick to shove up the collar of his shirt.

“This is what you fight for,” Buccellati tells him, face pulled halfway to a snarl, and there’s no question about what’s he’s referring to. “This is what you _defend_.”

“No,” Abbacchio says, and then, “ _no_.”

Buccellati glares. “Then what is? The World Government’s black side is all you do!”

“It’s—” _peace_ , he wants to say, _justice_ , but they burn into ash on his tongue. Because Buccellati is covered in faded scars and branded a slave and he _still_ treats Abbacchio with something like kindness and—and Abbacchio knows the rhyme and the rhythm of these kind of things. There are studies, are principles, are history books with a story of violence but Abbacchio is _Cipher Pol_ and he isn’t foreign to forgery. “It’s order.”

“Order?” Buccellati says, and Abbacchio winces at the tone. “You call this order? It’s not _order_ , agent, it’s systemic oppression.”

Abbacchio opens his mouth, wants to says _it’s necessary_ , but he looks at Buccellati and the words die in his throat.

Buccellati leaves.

It’s the coldest Abbacchio’s felt since his first days in Cipher Pol.

-

Abbacchio dreams like he always does.

Blue eyes and black hair and bronze skin. A bottle in his hand. Gentle fingers, the bottle leaves. Water that tastes sweet and distilled. Somebody frowns.

“ _Abbacchio_ ,” he says, and it’s a terribly sad tone of voice, “ _you’re late. Remember?_ ”

Outside the window, the sun is shining, so bright it almost hurts his eyes. Gold on the pale stones. Glittering on the water. Somebody wrenches open the window. The scent of salt and garlic and fresh-baked bread.

“ _Alright_ ,” he says, “ _I know. I’m coming_.”

-

“Here,” Buccellati says, pausing in front of him. He digs a canister out of one of his pockets. It’s plain and white, screw-on lid. Abbacchio furrows his eyebrows.

“What?”

Buccellati tilts his head. “It’s food. You haven't eaten in days.”

Abbacchio blinks. Wonders how long he’s been here. “Ah,” he says, pauses, hesitates, “I can’t eat on my own. I can hardly lift a finger.”

Buccellati pauses, looks at him, looks at the canister, looks at him. “Ah.”

A moment. The ocean crashes vaguely in the distance. Bubbles pop. The ground rumbles lowly with magma. The petrified shell is warm on his skin—bubbling heat below it’s surface. Bright fish swish around beyond his bubble.

Abbacchio clears his throat. Buccellati shakes his head, seemingly to himself, and unscrews the canisters. A silver spoon catches on the light, and Buccellati is offering him a spoonful of soup.

He opens his mouth, hesitantly tries it—(stupid, because it could be drugged, would be drugged if this were a Cipher Pol cell, but it isn’t, and this is Buccellati, and somewhere along the line that began to mean some level of trust.) It’s vaguely sweet, mostly savory, with a touch of miscellaneous bitter tastes and slimy clumps that say half the broth flavoring is probably dissolved nutrient pills. It isn’t the worst thing he’s ever had.

Somewhere around halfway Abbacchio starts to feel vaguely nauseous. It’s not drugging so much as it is a sharp intake of food after a period of starvation. He closes his lips, shakes his head best he can. Buccellati’s expression pinches.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Abbacchio says, “just—full. I was cannibalizing fat. So actual food is...” if he could, he would make a vague motion with his arms, “y’know.”

“Oh,” Buccellati says, nodding. “Sure. I’ll come back later then..?”

Abbacchio nods, ever so slight, and Buccellati moves to leave. And Abbacchio will be back alone, is the dark and the glow and the crashing ocean and—“Wait!”

The fishman pauses, turns back around to face Abbacchio and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks because actually what the _hell_. He just called Buccellati back because he didn’t want to be _alone_. Kind of pathetic.

Buccellati cocks his head. “Yes?”

“I—” he pauses, stumbles, “I wanted to apologize. For the other day. I—I’m sorry. Fishmen...minks, humans too, people shouldn’t be slaves. Cipher Pol—I don’t...know. I don’t know.”

And it’s terrible because he means it, terrible that he means it. Treason.

Something in Buccellati’s expression softens.

“It’s alright,” he says, and he’s almost smiling. It’s something close to breathtaking. “Apology accepted. Thank you.”

Abbacchio smiles, too, if weakly. “So,” he says, and clears his throat, “what is this place anyway? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Buccellati laughs, small and light, he settles down beside Abbacchio, spines down and dormant. “No, I don’t imagine you would’ve. We’re at the very bottom of the ocean. The trenches.”

Abbacchio blinks. “The _trenches?_ But...”

The fishman nods. “It’s the coral, it’s...It makes it’s own field of pressure, as long as you can make it down in a bubble then you’ll be safe from pressure in it’s area. And it’s more..alive than shallow coral. And carnivorous. It’s luminescent as a lure.”

“The hell,” Abbacchio mutters, “no _wonder_ revolutionaries are so hard to track if you’ve got _this_ kind of place as a base.”

Buccellati’s eyes crinkle. “They’re hard to find.”

Abbacchio sighs. “Yeah. Harder than Cipher Pol’s, at least, unless it 0 or 9. I don’t think 0 even _has_ a base to find.” He pauses. “Then again, that’s above my clearance.”

Buccellati hums. “What _is_ in your clearance?”

He snorts. “Sorry, it’s not going to be _that_ easy.”

The fishman nods, slight smile. “Figured.” Pauses, then, “Tell me about yourself? I joined the revolutionaries six years ago, when I was thirteen.” He pauses, then blinks, almost owlishly, huffs a laugh. “I don’t even know your name.”

Abbacchio stays silent, opens his mouth, closes it, pauses, hesitates, “Cipher Pol picked me up twelve years ago. My...codename’s Abbacchio. I picked it.”

“Abbacchio,” Buccellati says, like he’s tasting the name. And he says it _right_ , says it the way Abbacchio has always heard it in his mind, the way no one else has ever said. It makes something in his blood sing, beneath his bones, deeper than his memories. It feels _right_. “Nice to meet you, then. I go by Buccellati. Although,” he gives Abbacchio a crooked smile, “I guess you already knew that.”

“Yeah,” Abbacchio echoes, “I guess.”

Buccellati hums. “Hobbies? Favorites?”

Abbacchio huffs a laugh. “You don’t really have...hobbies, in Cipher Pol, not a lot of free time when you have a whole world to run, but I like—”

“Opera,” Buccellati says, “and white wine, and ruchetta salad and margarita pizza. And you hate naive people.”

He blinks. He doesn’t even know what ruchetta salad and margarita pizza _are_. But they sound _right_. “I—yes. Yeah. How..?”

“I don’t know,” Buccellati says, voice clicking and warbling and uncertain in a way Abbacchio hates. “I need to go. I’ll...be back in a few hours, excuse me.”

And like that, he’s out.

-

Abbacchio dreams like he always does.

Setting the broken nose of a black haired boy with violet eyes so bright they almost hurt to look at. A glass of red wine on a white tablecloth. Three slices of cake. The sun on his skin through the window, the chatter of patrons in a language he knows like the back of his hand—opera coming in through his headphones. The instruments swell, drowning out the childish squabbling around him. 

Across the table: blue eyes crinkled up and glittering like the midday harbor, the sun lighting his hair up so the navy blue shines through just a bit more than usual, bronze skin, expression pulled into something undeniably fond. It’s breathtaking. He looks at Abbacchio and says something that he can’t hear through the music and he thinks he’s blushing but hopes the makeup covers it.

He takes off the headphones. Breathes deep. Garlic and salt and fresh baked bread, squabbling around him, somewhat irritating, not really. He looks across the table and smiles.

-

“Sorry for leaving so abruptly,” is the first thing Buccellati says to him when he slips back into Abbacchio’s bubble. Water clops off of him onto the stone.

“No,” Abbacchio says, shakes his head and—and he can actually _do_ it. It’s still hard, slight movements, but it’s more than just slight twitches. How long has it _been?_ “It’s alright. I guess. What was that about..?”

“I...” Buccellati pauses, closes his eyes, opens them, sighs. Sits down beside Abbacchio, back leaning against the petrified shell, shoulders slouching. The dripping fabric of his loose-fit suit touches against Abbacchio’s side. Beneath his palms, the ground is warm. Buccellati tilts his head, meeting his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Buccellati admits, and now more than ever he looks human.

It feels like—like the first time, like it took a lifetime and a half but now Abbacchio sees. Sees his dark-circled eyes and his clenches fists and he looks lost. There are marks on his face: scars and stripes and dimples, when he’s smiling. And he looks like a person. Who laughs and love sand hates and Abbacchio thinks: _how did I miss this?_

A pause, a moment, and Buccellati’s looking at him with uncertainty.

“I don’t know either,” Abbacchio admits, and he feels like laying his soul out. “I don’t—I don’t know anything. You’re a fishman and a revolutionary and you’re...you aren’t what you’re supposed to be, you know? And if they—we—were wrong about fishmen then the revolutionaries, or Ohara, or—”

He bites that line of words off because it’s _actually_ treason. Is everything Abbacchio has been trained against questioning since he was six. Conditioned against. And it _was_ conditioning, he knows enough psychology to know that. And normally Abbacchio would be alright with that, because he knows complete obedience is vital for maintaining order but—

“Yeah,” Buccellati agrees, and his eyes are wandering. “That’s good. You’re in the right way, you know. They call us a terrorist organization. They lie about a lot of things.”

Buccellati looks at him. Meets his eyes. Blue, like the sea and the sky in one. They look ethereal. Or sacred. Or familiar. Like something Abbacchio can trust.

And Abbacchio thinks of faulty science and killed reporters, of burned islands and blacklisted books, of slave auctions and starving children, and says: “Yeah. I know. I figured. I—” something awful tears its way from his throat, a strangled mess of a scream and a sob, and he says, “I fucked up.”

“You...” Buccellati purses his lips. Shakes his head, looks away, looks back. Looks like guilt and pain and care and it’s something Abbacchio never wanted to see on him. “I don’t know how much to blame you. You said Cipher Pol picked you up twelve years ago? You look—shit, you look _my_ age.”

“I’m eighteen,” Abbacchio says.

Buccellati makes a low, pained noise.

“On paper I’m twenty five,” he says, “it’s all lies. It’s all...I don’t know how much of everything is a _lie_.” He huffs a kind of laugh. “The nature of species? The validity of the Reverie? Justice? Reincarnation itself? You have to register for it, you know, and on my Cipher Pol contract an official benefit is reincarnation to a nice cushy noble life when I die. It’s ridiculous. What say do mortals have in _reincarnation?_ ”

According to the government: none. The Celestial Dragons came down from the sky itself, are incarnations of gods, and the World Government is their gift to humanity. And because it’s a divine gift, serving it and maintaining it is a positive on the karmic scale. And the people heading it, who have climbed it’s sacred ladders, proven their worth, earn the ability to weigh in on karmic scales. Decide your reincarnation.

It sounded like bullshit, even when Abbacchio was a child.

“Yeah,” Buccellati says, and there’s a strange kind of expression on his face. “Yeah. Did you ever believe it? Reincarnation, I mean. They’re quiet, and stamped down, but there are plenty of people, _islands_ of people, who don’t believe the official statements on religion and reincarnation and karma and service.”

“I don’t know,” Abbacchio answers, truthfully, “I just..I don’t know. Not the parts about service—about helping the world government being able to just... _give out_ better next lives. Not that. Fuck. If karma exists, through reincarnation or—or something else—I’m going to hell.”

Buccellati looks at him, and Abbacchio can see confusion there. Uncertainty, something confused, something like hope, something that hurts. “It’s a nice thought, reincarnation” Buccellati says finally, after a beat too long. “Second chances.”

“Second chances,” Abbacchio echoes. He wonders how many of those he’s had—how many he’s fucked up, if he’s still living like this. Like he’s drowning in his skin, doesn't know who to follow, is lost in the dark with no light. “Maybe.”

(They sit in silence. Talk about music. Abbacchio asks if fishmen and mer sing, thinks they would sound _beautiful_ in opera, and Buccellati says yes. Says it’s only in small select, usually hidden, places, says he’s heard them sing in a lot of revolutionary bases. And Abbacchio wonders.)

(Buccellati doesn’t put more poison in his veins on his way out. It’s been so long he can almost lift his whole hand, now. And Abbacchio wonders.)

-

Abbacchio feels the sun on his shoulders, the black fabric of his cloths burning in the heat, breathes in salt and sea and there’s a choice before him. There’s a boat in front of him, Buccellati standing on it, and that’s all that really matters. He doesn’t think about what’s behind him, doesn't think of any other choice, because there’s only ever been one he could live with.

He looks at Buccellati, and he thinks: _I love you, I would follow you into hell, I would die for you_ , and he steps forward. Feels the boat rocking beneath him, somewhere between solid and liquid.

And then he’s bleeding, and he’s dying, and he doesn’t regret it. And he vaguely hears the screams, the pleas, and he sees black hair and blue eyes and bronze skin, and it’s the end of a dream.

-

Buccellati tumbles back into his bubble only some hours later. His skin is pale and clammy and his breathing is all off. And he’s looking at Abbacchio like he’s a miracle, or a puzzle, or something terrible. There’s fear, there, and hope.

“I dreamed last night—this morning, a few minutes ago,” Buccellati says, abrupt and out of the blue, and it’s kind of strangled. “You died for me. Abbacchio you died for me. I felt like I was dying and I still do.”

“What?” Abbacchio asks, vaguely confused, vaguely nauseated. He pulls himself off the wall, out of his slouch, because he can do that now-he’s weak but the venom's almost gone and he could bite off his tongue. But he knows what Buccellati is talking about. Because sometimes Buccellati looks at him and It feels like the start of a dream that ends in red—“Buccellati what?”

But Buccellati looks like he’s caught by a mania, or a sickness, or something wonderful. And he looks like he could be crying. “You chose Abbacchio as a code name, but your birth name—it’s Leone. Isn’t it? Leone Abbacchio?”

And the way Buccellati says it feels like a punch the gut. Like someone tearing off his skin and flaying him inside out. Like knocking his head hard enough to blink his vision and digging out all the forgotten parts f his memory. And Abbacchio looks at Buccellati and thinks: _I know you_.

“Yeah,” Abbacchio says, and something _tugs_ in his head, pulls like the start of a migraine. “And you’re—you’re Bruno Buccellati and—”

And then Buccellati is lurching forward, and he’s close enough that their breaths mingle. And Abbacchio looks in his eyes and sees the sea and the sky and a lifetime of memories. Then—then Buccellati is cutting through his binding and shoving a knife into his hand, and his grip is hard on Abbacchio’s wrist when he forces the blade against his throat.

Buccellati bleeds red at the edge of the blade, and he looks like he could cry, but his grip doesn’t shake. Abbacchio looks at him with wide eyes and gritted teeth, and he wants to ask _why?_ But he knows why.

He knows: he could kill Buccellati here. Abbacchio could shove the blade into Buccellati’s throat and it would kill him. Abbacchio could slowly press the knife against Buccellati’s flesh, and Buccellati wouldn’t move.

He knows Buccellati trusts him. And he doesn't do anything at all.

Abbacchio pulls his hand back, the knife drops—gets thrown—to the side. It clatters against the stone. Buccellati falls into him.

“Fuck,” Abbacchio says, feels Buccellati’s warmth on his chest. He’s gentle on Abbacchio’s injuries, even now, like this. “Buccellati I fucked up. Both times. In every way.”

“I don’t care,” Buccellati says, kind of muffled by Abbacchio’s damp suit. “I don’t _care_.”

“I do.”

Buccellati doesn’t say anything. Abbacchio silently curses. Because what is this luck? What is this pattern? What is this justice? How can he fuck up worse on the second chance than on the first? How can he fall higher and harder and more terrible this time than last?

Last time—he was nobody, was a fuck-up and a failure and Buccellati saved him. This time, he’s a fuck up and a failure and an agent of death, he’s killed Buccellati’s people and defended Buccellati’s tormentors and Buccellati saved him, again. And it shouldn’t be possible to love someone this deeply, this fully, this terribly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. Anything. Everything.

“It’s okay,” Buccellati says, pulling back. His eyes are shiny. “It’s okay. Please believe me. It’s _okay_.”

But it _isn’t_. It really isn’t. “Shit,” Abbacchio manages, “Buccellati, you can’t just… I _can’t_.”

“But! You...” Buccellati trails off, and there’s a terribly raw, vulnerable kind of emotion on his face. Abbacchio’s whole chest swells. “What can you do?” he asks, “How can you forgive yourself?”

 _I can’t_ , he wants to say, but he looks at Buccellati and it dies on his tongue. Buccellati looks at Abbacchio with his whole heart in his eyes, and he looks like he could break, and Abbacchio thinks. Really thinks. Thinks he could _try_.

“I’ll become a double-agent,” he says, and he feels dizzy, like the wold is tilting, “I’ll—Buccellati, I’ll join the revolutionaries—I’m in a unique position, I’m already Cipher Pol, I can—I can spy from the inside.”

Buccellati’s pupils blow open. The spines on his arms are bristling. “You don’t have to do that. You—we wouldn’t make you. That’s—if you were caught—you...”

“I need to,” Abbacchio says, and his mind is made. “I want to, Buccellati, I _want_ to.”

And that’s the thing isn’t it? He needs this, he _wants_ this.

A beat. The crashing sea. The pop of bubbles. The swish of fish. Buccellati’s eyes stay locked on him. His skin pricks.

“Even if I didn’t want you to?” Buccellati asks, quiet, harsh against the silence. “Your death… _Abbacchio_.”

“Yeah,” Abbacchio answers, “even though.”

Because he’s _done_ with following. Last time he followed Buccellati, and he doesn't regret dying for him, never will, but he regrets not _seeing_ Buccellati like he sees him now. Buccellati was dying last time, slowly, and Abbacchio knew but he didn’t see. Buccellati was lost, was just as lost as him, and he didn’t _see_ that.

And this time—well. He’s Cipher Pol.

Buccellati had been his guiding hand for so long, and he could have that back. He could follow Buccellati again but—he doesn't want that. Doesn't want it for Buccellati and doesn't want it for himself. Buccellati is kind and forgiving but Abbacchio doesn’t want forgiveness, doesn't need forgiveness. His path is atonement, is penance, is looking at his mistakes and trying to be better for it.

Abbacchio’s been following blindly for two lifetimes and he’s _over_ with it. It’s never done him well, it’s never done _anyone_ well. There’s a bone-deep ache in his whole body, a terrible kind of agony, and he wants to do _better_. Wants to try, at least. Wants to fight against his mistakes, and even if he’ll never make up the difference, at least he’ll have _tried_.

Buccellati’s expression pinches.

Abbacchio doesn't take his words back.

“Okay,” Buccellati says. Sighs, steps back, closes his eyes, looks like he’s trying to pull himself back into one piece. “Please don’t die.”

“I’ll try.”

Buccellati opens his eyes. Purses his lips. “Good. Can I kiss you?”

Abbacchio blinks. “I—what?”

“Please,” Buccellati says, “can I kiss you?”

“I—” there’s a pain in his chest, like he’s dying, like he’s suffocating, and it’s hope and love and dread, “I’m sorry. I—I can’t. I...”

How can he explain this? How does he describe this?

“Why?” Buccellati asks, and it isn’t heartbreak in his voice, but it’s similar.

“Buccellati...” you saved me once, you saved me twice. I died for you, I would die again for you. I looked at you and spat vitriol and you dressed my wounds. I’ve looked at you like you were god, I’ve looked at you like you were less than human. I see you now. I used to love you so much I was sick with it, I love you again and it feels like I’m dying. You have my heart but the thought of taking yours makes my skin crawl. “...You deserve better.”

A pause, a moment, silence. The crash of waves and pop of bubbles and swish of fish. Buccellati watches, spines bristling, and Abbacchio sees anger on his face—resolve.

“Abbacchio,” Buccellati says, slow and quiet, “that’s the one of stupidest things I’ve ever heard.” He lifts his hand, cups Abbacchio’s face, gentle. His skin is slippery, a different kind of texture than human, but it’s _Buccellati_. His skin burns.

“But— _Buccellati_ —”

“No,” Buccellati cuts, sharp and clear. “You regret what you did in this life, you know what’s wrong, you want to be _better_. Abbacchio, I _want_ you, and you can tell me you don’t want me but you can’t tell me what _I_ deserve.”

And what can Abbacchio say to that? Because Buccellati _means_ it. He means it, and Abbacchio doesn’t know what to do with that.

(He does.)

(He wants it too.)

He…

“Shit,” Abbacchio says, “I—shit, okay. Okay. Then if you’ll have me.”

Buccellati’s eyes crinkle up, glittering a bright and brilliant blue. Like the Naples skyline in midday. Like everything Abbacchio’s ever coveted. He draws close, closer, and their breaths mingle, and Buccellati’s lips press on his. They’re warm and soft and gentle and don’t reach for more than Abbacchio’s ready to give and—and they’re Buccellati’s.

Abbacchio wants to cry.

Instead, he stretches his arms around Buccellati’s back, and presses him into the tightest hug he can give.

“I love you,” he says, raw and honest, and he’s wanted to say it for a lifetime and a half.

“I love you too,” Buccellati answers, and it goes straight to his chest. “And call me Bruno now.”

(A lifetime ago, they still called each other by their last names. Because it was the mafia and they were young, and probably going to die, and anything else was terrifying.)

“Yeah,” Abbacchio agrees, “Bruno. I’m Leone.”

Bruno beams.

“Don’t die on me,” Bruno says.

“I’ll try,” Leone answers, doesn’t promise safety because he’ll do a lot of things but he won’t lie to Bruno.

“Good,” Bruno says, soft, and his hands are gentle on Leone’s skin. He closes his eyes. Leans into the touch. “That’s the best we can do.”

He would die for this, he thinks, for Buccellati’s skin on his, and a love so deep it could swallow him whole, for the second chance of a second chance. Has died for this. There’s salvation beneath his fingertips, dancing on his skin, and Buccellati is only part of it. It’s the second chance of a second chance, a third attempt, and Leone—

Leone tries.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hell yeah. I think this is the favorite work I’ve made in this series. The first felt pretty slow and not aptly dramatic, the second felt weirdly paced and kinda incomplete, but this one?? I’m actually pretty satisfied.
> 
> This is my first time really writing bruabba or bruno and abbacchio’s dynamics so. I think they came out alright?? Bruno is weird for me to write but I don’t think it showed too hard cause it wasn’t his pov. Hhh, I hope the drama(?) hit ok. Because I love em some good drama but sometimes it can come onto the page weirdly stilted and awkward feeling.
> 
> Obviously. I went pretty ham on the worldbuilding here. I hope it didn’t overshadow the characters at points?? I just. Have a lot of THOUGHTS on the one piece world. Like. Yeah. I didn’t really get to show it in the other parts of this series but.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! If you did, don’t be shy to leave a comment! I always enjoy reading feedback, and, as always, constructive criticism is welcome! :)


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